the precentage of the population
by ginger sugar
Summary: Mrs Xavier makes excuses. Charles gives in, and loves. This is not your ordinary train-station goodbye. AU


A/N: Went for the stuff blowing up, stayed for the slash (and the kink meme). Can I say that I am incredibly happy to be in this fandom? The standard of the fanfiction here is mind-bendingly high.

So anyway, this fic. Well, it's an AU in which mutants are already known and hated by the world. The world's governments run facilities to capture and experiment on mutants. There's impending war on the horizon, and both sides are perfectly willing to fight to the death. So it's just like normal X-Men canon, except they weren't the ones who started it. Besides, I get to write angry!tortured!Charles, which is always good.

Well, enjoy! (hopefully)

April 1942

She blames him, of course.

(-because there was no way _in hell_-)

Her parents had said no. _No class, no breeding, that's enough Patricia stop acting like a child._ She packed her bags and ran, they took back everything they'd ever given her, she didn't give a rat's ass. Then there were trains after bus after hot, smoky motel rooms where they made love on stained sheets. Then they died and the lawyers gave everything back to her, they'd come back. Charles came. Then he left. He never said why. Another thing he owed her.

(they were right, so right and it killed her to admit it, even now-)

And this, this would just be one more in a list of many, just another poisonous wound, poison in his hands, his words, his _blood_

(it was unfair, she wasn't supposed to be afraid of her child, she wasn't supposed to have a monster-)

He answered questions before they were asked. Knew things he wasn't supposed to know. Once he told the cook that the key to the pantry was in Roseann's pocket, before he'd even asked. The servants whispered for days, Roseann refused to come back to work, and she'd just wanted them to tell them to stop making a big deal of it, you've got your damn keys-

(And the tutors-"Master Charles is incredibly bright, impeccable schoolwork, he's far ahead for his age-and he answers questions very well, " and here, they'd get nervous. "takes them right out of my mouth sometimes, hardly need to teach him anything, like he's reading my mind." then there would be the uneasy laughter, and she'd join in right on time, like a duet-)

She just lay in bed that afternoon, vodka burning her throat, dulling her senses. She slurred a little at dinner time, Charles frowning at the servants, ignoring her when she asked him what was wrong (like he didn't even realise she'd spoken-). She asked him again, then slammed her fork down, rattling the plates and shaking the candlesticks. Charles jumped, eyes frightened, her scream froze in her throat, she suddenly realised that she was very, very tired, clean up here please I'm going to (get hammered, throw up, runrunrun) lie down for a bit.

("Mrs Xavier, do you think, did you ever consider-")

(Of course she did, did they think they were stupid, of course she'd know, why wouldn't they just leave her alone-)

She'd been very, very tired last night. She'd dreamed of smoky motel rooms with stained sheets, of warm sticky bodies, of bright blue eyes and gentle laughter, of arguments that would never be finished and the man who'd disappeared into the night and never came back. She had opened her eyes and felt wetness on her face, and empty fireplace, crumpled letters on the ground, a large vodka stain on her dress-

She'd cleaned up, walked out, and gotten in the car with Charles and the driver.

(_Charles wants to say something, do something. Cry. Scream._

_He does nothing, because he wants it so much he doesn't dare, he can't decide what to do. _

_So his body decides for him, and does nothing. Anyway-_)

Where she decides what the hell, she'd just blame him.

(there are worse fates than to be her eternal scapegoat and he'd earned all of them in her book-)

It isn't raining yet. People are looking at the sky worriedly, wrapping their raincoats around themselves, weaving their way through gaps between dull, sooty cars. They're taking their old car today-she'd decided last night (right from the start) that the less people knowing about it, the better.

(It's for his sake, that's what she thinks, clinging to the mantra fed to her by television announcers the newspapers "_A place where they can belong, where they can find others of their kind, where they won't pose a danger to ordinary people. Save them. Do it for their sake.")_

_(_-all she hears is. "_We'll take them from you, they won't be your problem anymore, we'll save you from them and we'll take of them so you won't have to-")_

(-won't have to look at them, see them, think about them, about how afraid you are, how confused you are, how you could possibly love something like this, how you could possibly not love your own child)

(won't have to hate them)

(won't have to hate yourself for hating them-)

Charles is silent in the car beside her, and she keeps her eyes pointing outside the window.

(-_afraid_?)

(for your sake)

(she's tired of trying to believe it)

(anyway, she's tried. she's tried. It counts for something.)

(right?)

She starts when the driver says "We're here." and the buildings are all large and gray and soulless, they all looked the same to her. A man in a white coat (hard to keep clean, she thinks distractedly) stands in front of the nearest one. She steps out and smells rain; he shakes her hand, eyes dark brown, almost black, and almost as smooth as oil. After pleasant, bland questions about traffic, about weather, you look splendid, he asks "And the boy-?"

A squeak of a car door behind her, and the driver impassively hands the suitcase to Charles. It's small and neat, brand new leather, as is everything inside, 'Charles Xavier' written in evenly sized block letters on the tag. A gift. A present, from his mother. _Right here, darling, everything you need for your trip. _

(everything you need for your new life)

(leave everything but your name behind)

He comes forward, and the man in the white coat grips his forearm through his jacket, lip curling very slightly. She feels as if she should say something. She doesn't.

They go up the steps leading impassive (metal) doors, and then she realises that there are men standing there. Dangerous men, muscles taut, the shine of metal beneath their jackets, and there's the man in the white coat and a small boy walking towards them and this-this. Isn't right.

And then she's looking at Charles' face, at blueblue eyes in a pale shadowy face

(_mommy? mommy what's happening?)_

_(that would make things a little more right, a little more human)_

But he says nothing (_his body decides before he can_), and she admits to herself that she may be sorry.

(but only after she is sure that it wouldn't change anything)

A small, cold man, and a small, cold boy crowded in by men in black. Then they are gone.

She slips back in the car. The car doors squeak shut.

_(_this is relief, this is disgust, this is sad and strange and Charles is not here anymore. An absence of being_.)_

_(_she wonders if she'll ever get used to it. then she laughs. it's really a little bitter_)_

_(Are you afraid?)_

"A detour, if you please, Robert."

He glances at her in the mirror. He turns toward the nearest pub knowing that it won't be open, but today. Isn't really the best for an argument.

They drive. It hasn't started to rain yet, but she sees dully that all the streets are empty.

_(-but anyway.)_

_(he knows -knew- that it wouldn't matter. He knew he'd still love her when the car drove away)_


End file.
